The visitor

I awoke to a flickering light in the hallway outside my bedroom, and I could not, for the life of me, remember whether I had blown out the candle or not.

I didn’t even remember going to bed.

My skin felt wrong, as if it didn’t belong to me. That thought kept repeating in my mind, felt important, though I could no longer remember why.

An unfamiliar feeling settled low in my stomach, it made me uneasy and made me question how I even ended up in my room.

Something felt wrong.

I turned my gaze to the window, and the curtains were drawn, so I knew it was dark outside.

How had the day already passed? Had I slept through the entire day?

A strange sound interrupted my train of thought, and I held my breath and listened closely, but no sound came.

What if I wasn’t alone? I had to get out, but what if it was all in my head? Could I risk it, or should I listen to my body?

I considered leaving my bed, but fear stopped me—it froze my body completely, and I had to force oxygen into my lungs.

I released my breath, but then I heard footsteps moving outside my bedroom, coming closer. The sound slow and heavy.

I had the sudden urge to crawl into hiding and scanned my room for an escape plan, but none came to mind.

“I know you are in there.”

A voice so dark it sent chills down my spine and made me recoil and hide under the blanket.

I clenched my fists so hard that my nails dug into my skin, drawing thick and sticky drops of blood around the wounds. It stung, but my fear took over, and the pain died out.

My eyes fell to my closet, and I tumbled out of bed, crawled forward, and hid behind heaps of clothes on the floor.

I waited, but when it turned day, I dared to leave my hiding spot and left my bedroom—in search of the visitor.

I found no one, and to this day I am still unsure if the person was ever there, or if I imagined it all.

No one believed me, and it has made me question everything I ever thought possible.